#trabble

He plucked some of the rare herbs out of the ground when he suddenly felt like he was being watched. Viktor looked around and saw it. A … structure. He frowned and carefully walked towards it. It looked almost … human. Almost like it was alive. Viktor hesitated, then he stretched out his hand and touched the rough surface. The face was broken in half, as if it was missing a part of itself, the colours changed depending on how the light hit the surface. He had never seen something as beautiful.

“Fascinating”, he whispered as he gently touched its face. There was a force pulling him towards it. For a second it felt like there were long forgotten memories rushing through his mind, creating a whirlwind of colours and emotions and taking his breath away. He pulled back again, and fell onto his butt, staring. What happened?

He took a few deep, calming breaths, then he grabbed his cane again, pulled himself up and rushed back to the crack that he slipped out of.

“Viktor.”

"Submit." It was what Mairon wanted—something other than lord and master. "Out there, I bow to you," he insisted, "but in here, you belong to me."

Melkor had scoffed. He was the true elder king, the greatest among them all. He would never submit to another.

And yet, it was what Mairon desired. Submission. Melkor finally yielded. And he found it to be different. Submitting to Mairon was different. It felt right, like that was how they were supposed to be.

And now Mairon's lips were a hair's breadth over his own, the flat of his palm cupping his cheek. That touch blazed like a furnace, but Melkor felt no pain. All he felt was pleasure shooting through him like bolts of white-hot lighting.

"Does it hurt?" he whispered, his voice already thick with need.

His name. Just his.

"It does not, precious." Melkor moaned when lips that tasted of cloves and honey opened over his, and warmth flooded his entire being. Mairon pressed into him, their fanas cleaving to each other while he moved. His eyes closed and his mouth opened in a silent cry as each thrust brought him closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. Melkor only encouraged him; his words and pleas and cries inflamed him.

It felt so strange to be the instrument of another's pleasure. To have to lay there, hands bound to the bedpost, unable to touch or possess, to be at the mercy of another, was indeed strange. And overwhelming. And exhilarating. Melkor yielded to hungry kisses, to caresses that went from gentle to frantic in the blink of an eye, to the nails that left a mark of their own all over his fana. He drowned in Mairon's desperate moans, his name spilling off Mairon's lips.

It was glorious.

Ancalagon was small, no bigger than a half-starved cat. He curled his slender tail around Melkor's arm, sniffing at the air while he was carried to the world outside. Steam poured out of his nostrils every time he breathed.

Such a tiny thing. Melkor ran a finger down Ancalogon's spine, his lips tugging at the corners when the dragon hatchling purred and unfolded beautiful crimson and black wings more than twice his length. But strong. 

But how strong was strong? Ancalagon was the first of his kind—a winged behemoth that would cast shadows over the earth when he flew overhead and reduce everything beneath him to ash in a single breath. Melkor felt a creeping sense of trepidation. Such deeds were years into the future, and the success of it all hinged on the now. 

By the time they reached the courtyard, the sky was already black from the thick smog of smoke from Angband's many furnaces. Melkor was pleased. Today was a good day. 

Perhaps it will be a good day for him as well. Melkor lifted his arm and whispered, "Fly."

Ancalagon screamed and flapped his wings. First, he rose only a hair's breadth over Melkor's palm. Then, a few inches. Then, on the third attempt, success. 

Melkor watched with bated breath while Ancalagon shrieked and flew. His wings struggled with the current; he dipped and nearly fell more than once, but the little dragon refused to yield.

Determined little thing, Melkor thought with pride. That pride grew when Ancalagon circled stone columns, his desperate flaps slowly morphing into an easy glide that made him soar higher and higher. 

Melkor's trepidation turned to triumph. Ancalagon's first flight went better than he could have dreamed. He stretched out his arm and waited, smiling when the dragon returned to him.

Eönwë was abed when he heard him. 

Close your eyes, my love. Honeyed words came to him, each as clear as a spring morning. I will see to the rest.

A simple request. The Lord Commander closed his eyes. And gasped when his naked fana trembled beneath another's touch. 

My king... He let out an otherworldly growl when raw and insatiable lust coursed through him. How is this possible?

Manwë laughed sweetly. Osanwë. You know that. Now, do you wish for me to go on or no? 

The next touch undid him. Eönwë moaned, the sound low in his throat. Far be it from me to deny my king. Please. Go on.

The Elder King chuckled. It felt like he was there in the featherbed with him. The air smelled of him, of the sweet, cooling winds that would sweep across Taniquetil. Eönwë sighed in ecstasy. Manwë's gentle touch wove a spell he had no intention of breaking. His fana shook while an unseen hand glided over him, setting fire to every inch of his being. He willingly surrendered, his breath growing ragged and hoarse when that unseen hand brushed over wisps of his hair and over his lips. 

Manwë felt so much, even with vast halls and corridors separating them. He could feel Eönwë quivering beneath his palm. His moans were like a heady wine that intoxicated the king to his very core. It was not enough. Manwë went further and further, growing drunk on his herald's whimpers. And he was ceaseless, his ministrations going from tender to rough and hungry.

Hurry! Eönwë pleaded. Hurry! 

Manwë took his herald over the cliff, not stopping until his name was heard in a whisper and Eönwë's orgasm ripped through him. 

Stay there, Manwë groaned with need. I will come to you.